by James Hunter
Except he couldn’t get the twice-damned ability to do anything.
He turned to the page containing the slowly rotating doppelganger of his Jotnar form, the mirror image of himself in Hearthworld, along with any armor, jewelry, or weapons he was currently wearing. PwnrBwner and Randy both referred to this doppelganger as his avatar. Roark could access his own avatar from his personal grimoire, and—he’d recently learned—he could access the avatars of any of his vassals or Trolls from the Citadel through the grimoire tied to the Dungeon Lord’s Throne.
Once Roark had been given the option to adjust his looks, he’d added a tinge of his natural olive complexion, enough that though he was still ghostly pale, he could almost pass for human in this world. He’d left his hair shaggy and black, but played with his facial features until they were more or less in the right proportions—deep-set, brooding eyes, the slightly hooked nose that gave away his mother’s Lyuko traveler blood, his father’s sharp jawline—though he hadn’t been able to get rid of the serrated onyx teeth in his mouth. The wings behind his back no longer looked like the crippled, shriveled things he’d had since choosing the Jotnar Evolutionary Path. They were now fully functioning appendages, complete with glowing runic tattoos and barbed spikes, which had already proven deadly more than once.
Not for the first time since adding them, Roark glanced over the curling horns on either side of his head. He left them as they were. They severely limited the types of helmet he could wear, but they came with a respectable armor rating of their own, and Zyra seemed especially fond of them.
His greatest weakness in the fight against Lowen was his respawn level cap—any time he died, he respawned as a level 36. Lowen, on the other hand, would respawn at level 72, just like Viago and every other one of the winged flunkies taken out by the Heavenly Ward’s spate of Undead damage. No matter how high Roark climbed, a single death would cost him endless grinding and leave him vulnerable for Lowen to grief him as badly as Roark had PwnrBwner before their truce.
Letting his breath out slowly, Roark took out a quill and concentrated on his avatar. He’d tried half a dozen ways to Transmute Flesh on himself, but all had fizzled and ultimately failed. Perhaps if he treated it like Transmute Magick, where all that was required was to inscribe the Curse Chain in his Initiate’s Spell Book, then the rune could be used unlimited numbers of times.
He wrote, My respawn level changes permanently to level 99.
There was a flash, then a flat-sounding tone. A scrap of parchment covered his field of vision.
[Error! Requirement Restriction: You lack a Compatible Transmutation Core.]
It was the same response he’d received every time he tried Transmute Flesh. Roark scowled and slammed his grimoire shut with a thought.
The doppelganger wasn’t his actual flesh. Maybe that was the issue. Leaving the grimoire closed, he pulled the leather vambrace from his left arm and wrote My respawn level changes permanently to level 99. on his forearm.
[Error! Requirement Restriction: You lack a Compatible Transmutation Core.]
Roark hurled his quill down on his desk and dragged a clawed hand through his black hair.
“What the seven hells is a Compatible Transmutation Core?” he growled to the empty study.
Not surprisingly, no one answered.
He opened his grimoire once more and turned to the ribbon marked WikiLore, which had become an invaluable tool over the past few days. The WikiLore, and its ridiculous banks of knowledge, was a true godsend—without it, he never would’ve managed to create the Heavenly Ward Curse Chain. Roark searched for Compatible Transmutation Core first, then when that yielded nothing, tried Transmute Flesh. Once more, he came up empty-handed. He tried a number of spelling variations, since those who contributed to the Wiki often seemed to be near illiterate, but that too proved fruitless.
Begrudgingly, Roark had to admit that the lack of information on the ability made a certain kind of sense. Even if it was supremely inconvenient. The WikiLore held the combined knowledge of Hearthworld, and the World Stone Pendant, as far as Roark knew, had come from Traisbin. Or at the very least somewhere in his home dimension.
Somehow, somehow, that was the key—the fact that the World Stone was unique to another world. He felt certain of it. He just couldn’t puzzle out what door that key unlocked.
As he scowled down at the pendant, a shred of long-forgotten advice from his father, Sir Erich von Graf, flitted through Roark’s mind.
Frustration, anger, fear—each one leads to mistakes, and more often than not, magick won’t leave you alive to make a mistake twice. When you find yourself growing angry or frustrated, the smartest step to take is out the door. Find something else to occupy your mind until the hot blood cools and you can think clearly once more.
Strangely, the words from the ghost of a memory made Roark feel somewhat better. He had thought he’d forgotten the sound of his father’s voice.
Feeling slightly lighter, Roark took the memory’s advice to heart and left the dark confines of his study behind to check on the workings throughout the Troll Nation. He could make the rounds, then come back to wrestle with Transmute Flesh later with a fresh mind. Among the myriad things he needed to do, following up with Griff about creating a constabulary and infrastructure for the young nation was high on the list of priorities, especially if the Troll Nation was to continue growing and thriving.
Roark headed for the marketplace. That was as good a place as any to start.
Constabulary
IT WASN’T HARD TO FIND Griff. His hangers-on were more numerous and louder than ever, surrounding the training grounds so thoroughly that Roark had to shove his way through them to get to the tunnels that led below.
A gasp went up behind him, but when Roark turned back, he didn’t see anyone looking his way. He continued down to doors etched with Curse Chains that would only allow them to open at the touch of Griff or one of the other charter members of the Troll Nation.
As he let himself inside, however, Roark felt something brush against his back. He spun, flicking out his wings defensively and throwing out a Dispel Magick. An Imp Enchantress tumbled back up the tunnel, her invisibility dispelled in a golden flash. She’d been trying to slip into the pit behind Roark.
“Fun-stealer!” she yelled at him, shaking a tiny pink fist. “I only wanted to touch his hair!”
Roark shook his head. “Trainees only in the pit.”
She started the cast for something nasty, but Roark opened his wings as wide as they would go in the enclosed space and bared his serrated black teeth.
“Whatever you’re preparing to throw at me is nothing like the wrath I can visit upon you, little Imp,” he growled. “Ask yourself truly whether your infatuation with Griff is worth dying for... or worse.”
The little pink creature scuttled backward like a crab until she was well out of reach, then hissed at him, eyes narrowing in hateful defiance. In a way, it was refreshing to come across a creature in the Troll Nation who wasn’t cowed by his status as Dungeon Lord. All the same, Roark didn’t want to have to destroy the Imp over something so trivial. Luckily, she let the spell she’d been preparing to hurl dissipate. Mobs could be bloodthirsty at times, but despite what the heroes of Hearthworld thought, those at higher levels were not mere dumb beasts.
[Congratulations, you have successfully Intimidated a level 9 Imp Enchantress. All victims of Intimidation with less than .25 x your Intelligence suffer from Fright for 45 seconds. Sometimes a big enough bark is all you need...]
Huffing a laugh, Roark headed down into the pit and made certain to shut the door securely behind himself. He knew he shouldn’t find Griff’s fans so amusing, as they were obviously annoying the grizzled old trainer, but Roark had to admit that they were far more entertaining and harmless than the rest of the problems he had to tackle as Dungeon Lord and leader of the Troll Nation.
In the churned dirt of the pit, Griff was busy running a group of varied mobs through drills Roar
k hadn’t seen him use before.
“Phalanx,” Griff barked.
The trainees all produced identical shields and darted into a defensive formation, locking their shields together to form a line.
“On the attack,” Griff ordered.
Crossbows leveled in the small notch between each shield.
“Press!”
As one, the trainees began to inch their line forward toward an invisible enemy.
“Surround!”
Without missing a step, the formation broke up, and the trainees spun outward, spreading themselves in twos around a central imaginary threat, one protecting the other with their shields. It was quite the display. Their perfect coordination reminded Roark of the elaborate ballets he’d attended as a child, back in those golden days when Marek was nothing more than a dark whisper on the wind, and Roark’s family was still alive and happy. He and his sister, Talise—only five at the time—had often giggled and whispered during the performances, earning sharp glares from their Lyuko nursemaid, Florina. “Neutralize magick user,” Griff shouted.
The non-shield bearer of the pairs all mimed casting spells at the central threat, then ducked back behind their partner’s shield.
“Now, a weapons user!”
The spellcasters produced their own shields, and as one, the group pressed in, until their shields were locked together in an impenetrable circle of implacable steel. Then a dense-looking crystalline mob with [Mose Hardscale] in spidery white text over his head gave a shout and leapt into the center, tackling the unseen enemy while his fellow trainees closed ranks.
When they had finished the subduing drill, they returned to their lines and stood at attention.
“Well, what do you think of the Rumble Crew?” Griff asked, turning sharply on a heel and fixing Roark with his piercing blue gaze.
Roark glanced over the line. There were twenty of them all told, and over half were mobs from outside the Cruel Citadel. He recognized several who had emigrated to the dungeon permanently, either coming in from the wilds or leaving lesser dungeons across Hearthworld that had refused Roark’s offers of allegiance.
“Impressive,” he said, and meant it sincerely. It was amazing what the grizzled old arena hand had done with a such a disparate group in the span of only a few days. “They’re already acting as a cohesive unit.”
“They were a bit slow on that final takedown,” Griff said, looking pointedly at the crystalline Mose Hardscale. The one-eyed weapons trainer turned back to Roark, a bit of a grin slipping out when the trainees couldn’t see it. “But I’m thinking with enough work, they might shape up all right. I imagine Grozka the Zealot will make sure they get plenty of that.”
“May I address them?” Roark asked, not wanting to undermine Griff’s authority in front of his troops—and they did seem to be his troops, even if Grozka would eventually be running the show.
“Naturally, Dungeon Lord,” Griff said with a dip of his head. “Attention!”
The troops fixed their eyes firmly ahead, backs going ramrod straight at Griff’s barked order. Roark positioned himself in front of the platoon, folding his hands behind his back as he regarded each of them.
“I recognize several of you, but others are new to me. Faces I have never seen before, from dungeons I’ve never heard of.” That caused a fluttering stir of murmurs from the onlookers, but Roark pressed on. “Despite the fact that this isn’t your home, you have come ready to fight for it. To uphold its rules and laws. And that, my fellows, is what Troll Nation is all about. It’s a dream of a better place for all of us, where we can make more of our lives than simple cannon fodder for the tyrannical heroes of this land.”
The assembled force seemed to swell at his words, chests inflating with pride.
“Being a member of the Troll Nation guard won’t be a glamorous job. It’s long hours. Work that’s often tedious and painful. You’ll be equipped appropriately and rewarded as we’re able, but the greatest reward I can extend to you is the chance to become one of my Lesser Vassals, regardless of your breeding or dungeon lineage. Accepting will indebt me to you as well as allow you to strengthen and level your abilities, potentially even open new classes to you. But this is not mandatory—I’m no tyrant and you’re not tools shaped for my hand. This is simply a small way to honor your sacrifice and commitment to the Troll Nation. Who would like me to bestow this upon them?”
Every hand in the group shot up into the air, including the glittering mitt of the oversized crystalline Mose Hardscale.
Roark smiled and quietly made his way through the ranks, offering each a few words of encouragement as he used the World Stone Pendant to make them a Lesser Vassal. When he was finally done, he slipped from the formation and retreated a few paces, nodding for Griff to resume.
The grizzled arena warrior offered Roark a small, somber nod, then took his place at the head of the platoon.
“Squad Leader Hardscale,” Griff barked, “today you have been become more than what you were spawned. Not above the law, but its caretaker. Take your crew to report to Grozka for assignments.”
The crystalline humanoid gave Griff a sharp nod, then stepped out of the line and called his squad to action. The Rumble Crew leapt to obey, following their squad leader from the arena in neat formation.
“Grozka accepted the position as constable, then?” Roark asked, stepping closer to Griff and lowering his voice.
Griff nodded. “She’s taking over with this lot, and I’ll start training up the next squad, and so on until we have plenty of shifts to patrol around the clock.”
Roark raised one brow. “You sound concerned. That seems like a wise plan. Is there something I’m missing?”
“No, you’re right,” Griff said, pawing at his gray-stubbled jaw. He turned his eye up toward his crowd of fans. “It’s just these damned sycophants. I thought once responsibility passed on to somebody else, they’d realize I’m nothing to bother over and move on, but hack me open if they don’t seem to be multiplying.”
Roark nodded. “I thought much the same as I was coming in.”
“Haven’t come up with any quick solutions yet?” Griff asked, hopefully.
If he were honest, Roark had forgotten his promise to find a deterrent for Griff’s fans in the rush to fortify the Citadel against Lowen’s attacks and uncover the secrets of the World Stone’s newest ability. He scrubbed a hand down his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, truly meaning it. “I’ll put everything I have into it. Maybe Zyra can mix up some sort of potion that will make you less attractive to them.”
“Couldn’t hurt to ask,” Griff agreed. Then he snapped his fingers. “Speaking of, Griefer, the Zealot and I came up with a few requests for our new law enforcers. They’ll need proper billeting, if you’ve got the resources to spare, and we could use guard stations around the marketplace.”
He dug into his leather jerkin with one scar-crossed hand and pulled out a few scraps of parchment. The top one he handed to Roark first.
“I had Kaz draw it up with his Cartography skill,” Griff said. “It’s a map with the proposed stations marked in red.”
Roark looked over it, nodding. “These should be simple enough to construct from the Troll Nation throne, and I can add more barracks on Grozka’s floor if she agrees to house the squads.”
“I imagine she’ll be amenable to it,” Griff said with a curt nod.
The trainer held out the other bit of parchment. The drawings on it were cruder than the map, but far more intriguing to Roark’s Smithing and Enchanting eye.
“Blueprints?” he asked. “And these look like teleportation schemata.”
“Ayuh,” Griff said. “Something to allow the crews to get around at high speed. Rally to their fellows as soon as they need to muster.”
Roark nodded, excitement prickling along his skin.
“I could smith badges keyed to runes set at certain points throughout the marketplace and Citadel,” he said, his mind already working throu
gh the parameters a group as varied as the Rumble Crew would require. “Maybe add a mass alarm spell that notifies them all at once when there’s a threat.”
Griff grinned triumphantly. “There you go. I knew you were the right man for this job.”
“I’ll get to work on them tonight,” Roark said, tucking the blueprints into his leathers. “Though it may take some experimentation to get them right.”
Right meaning a badge that not only transported them to the corresponding runic key, but one that did so without killing the wearer. Though Roark chose not to mention that particular detail while he was within earshot of the badges’ future owners.
“Good deal,” Griff said. “I’ll seek you out once I’ve got a spare moment between squads to talk about possible”—is eye rolled up again to glare at the attentive crowd overhead— “solutions to that mess.”
With a quick farewell, Roark headed back out into the Troll Nation Marketplace and made for the smithy. He was excited for the challenge of making up the badges. And, having something to focus on besides Transmute Flesh and Lowen’s imminent war had invigorated him more than a fresh Stamina potion. He would need a light but sturdy metal, one that wasn’t valuable enough to entice the greedy into stealing it. Or perhaps he could add an exclusionary Curse to the badges, requiring that only a member of the Troll Nation constabulary could possess them.
Yes, that was an idea.
His mind was so busy cranking through possible runes, gemstones, and metals that he hardly noticed he’d made it to the smithy. The apprentices there shouted greetings over the ringing of hammers and roar of the fire, but Roark only spared them an absent acknowledgment before heading back to his private smithy.
Steel, he had decided, would provide the best durability for the badges without adding an irresistible value. For gemstones, he would inlay the back of each badge with a hidden diamond for added Strength and Constitution, a pearl to amplify the caster’s spells, and a lapis for augmented Speed. All of the Flawless quality, of course. The Troll Nation’s treasury could easily afford the expense, and it would be well worth giving the constabulary all the help he could to keep the peace.